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> Poetry & Prose > Poetry & Prose Online > Claire O Connell > The Picture House

The Picture House


The canvas where you used to paint and the books once read, The laugh you used to sing and the sadness you once said, Each and every action haunts in picture glance, For all these wistful memories have died with your last dance, The music plays so swiftly but I fail to hear its tune, People pass your lonely house and just presume, This rooting home is seen as nothing anymore, its dying like you once before. The trees are breaking, the leaves broken hope, I only wish that this little house in memory could live as its past ropes, But the pictures are worn, the furniture all sold, No more music shall we hear, no dances and happy cheer, Just an empty house on a forgotten road, The ground just full with dying leaves, People ignore its simple pleas. Past is past and present now, The future never old, This house will just be a picture, Framed with gold, Hanging upon someone else's home, Just a picture about something nobody knows, It looks nice but this picture house is nothing anymore.


> Poetry & Prose > Poetry & Prose Online > Claire O Connell > The Picture House
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